Future and Past
by Love Gordon
Summary: Re-issue of story once availible on IA(N)D. Daria graduates from college... and we see Lurhman as a supernatural advisor.


Introducing...

**"Future and Past"**by Love Gordon

A story that takes place four years after Daria's graduation, and chronicles long-past events that changed the characters' lives. (_Note: This story was written in March - May of last year, and first posted in October 2000, to site that has since pretty much ceased functioning. Therefore, neither the fourth or fifth seasons has taken place in this story. I'm re-issuing it mainly since it's not available at IA(N)D anymore, and for another reason as well. Click [here][1] to read about it.)_

*****Prologue*****

Hello.

_I am the Misery Chick._

Those first two lines flickered on the screen of a laptop computer, in the attic of an old house in Maine. The fingers that typed them were long and thin, and a narrowness around the wrists suggested that the person they belonged to had been ill some long time.

She lifted her fingers from the key board, ran them through her short black hair, and rose to look out the window into the cold night. Stars graced the blue darkness, and she thought that maybe, just maybe, she might someday paint again. _Maybe. Nothing definite. Not anymore._

She raised the sash, and felt the cool air on her face. In the summer, even in the chill evening, it was always hot and stuffy in the attic.

_I promised myself_, she thought, _I can't break my promise, I won't give up._

So she sat down, typed a little more...

She reread what she'd written.

Hello.

_I am the Misery Chick_.

That was my best friend. 

She was a writer. Is a writer. 

I think she still writes.

It's been a long time

This is her story, though it's about me.

It used to be that she was the lonely one.

Now it's my turn.

Maybe her story will keep me company. 

_Man_, she thought, _I suck at this._

But Jane didn't erase any of it.

****

Far away, in a silent room in Lawndale, a girl just home from her last term at school packed away her belongings. She would soon move to "The City." The Big Apple, or whatever. She didn't really care.

Harvard was so close in her mind she sometimes forgot she wasn't in her dorm. Except when she was here. She didn't like being at home. Memories were there, she didn't like them. They were echoes of past events she'd always tried so desperately to escape. Maybe she'd spend her life running. 

Every night she lay awake, here in her room. It was one more place which no longer felt safe anymore, a haven turned to a hell in the space of four years. Four years in which she had completed college so far ahead of time, she'd graduated with her Ph. D. this last spring, at 22.

Her teachers often commented on how motivated she was, how quickly and how well she worked. Oh, she wasn't motivated. She only wanted to chase away the recollections of times past. Work always helped, if only for an hour or two. She'd lived in whirl of paper and textbooks. Now she was alone again.

She'd written a best-seller book in her spare time at college, netting her a good deal of cash. She didn't keep copies near her. They were the portrayal of her pain and grief, and towards the end, she'd given some of her happiness, too. A final triumph of good over evil. If only her life had followed that same rosy blueprint. 

_Will New York be different?_ she wondered. It had been so long since she'd been there. Aunt Amy had moved.That old pub had shut down. So much was gone from the fragile world that had shattered so long ago. In New York. 

Glancing toward the calendar, she saw that her mother had flipped over to this month's page. A date caught her eye, and she shivered. _June 21, 2004_. 

She'd been stranded in a bar in New York once, it was 2000's June 21. 

She looked out on a sky dark and starry.

"Please." said Daria, asking the night for solace from the past.

There was no answer.

****

Jane turned from the computer. She'd typed up all the pages. They had lain in her backpack so long, those pages. Handwritten, they were the only things she'd kept. Except for the photos, lying buried in the attic back in Lawndale.

She had not written those words, except for the introduction. They had been mailed to her by a friend about four years ago; found in a trash can, the copious paragraphs represented so much of the girl she had much known. Forgotten and tossed carelessly away most of the time, but rare and delicate when you looked close. Few people did.

Quinn was called a friend, despite the fact the two of them were not really close. She'd sent the manuscript in a plain envelope, beginning the start of their correspondence. They often e-mailed each other once a day, just to keep up with the news.

Quinn was a model, though not the stereotypical leggy blonde. She lived in Los Angeles, with her boyfriend, Matthew. She also happened to be the sister of the girl who was once Jane's only best friend. Her name was Daria.

****

Daria sat at her computer. She'd just finished her second novel, and her editor had e-mailed her, accepting the third draft as final. She e-mailed her mother, saying hello, a routine event.

She climbed into her bed, and her eyes ached from the glow of her computer screen. So this once, she fell into an inauspicious slumber, her computer idling beside her.

****

Jane, an artist, was surprised that her efforts had paid off. A nice looking document sat in her hands.

She wondered exactly why she'd done it. After all this time, it hardly mattered. Four years since that week in New York. It had all started with an phone call from Aunt Amy, an e-mail to her about a trip her friend was taking. 

_Maybe... That's how it should end... an e-mail..._ she thought. _Maybe we'll all get a night of sleep_. 

As she thought out the idea with herself, she copied the document into the e-mail form, filling out the addresses...

_daria_m@yahoo.com_

_mystik@prodigy.net_

Before she could convince herself otherwise, she clicked "SEND"....

****

**Part One: An E-mail, or Jane's Manuscript**

_Introduction_:

Hello.

_I am the Misery Chick_.

That was my best friend. 

She was a writer. Is a writer. 

I think she still writes.

It's been a long time

This is her story, though it's about me.

It used to be that she was the lonely one.

Now it's my turn.

Maybe her story will keep me company.

Jane Lane

****

_New York: a poem-story by D. Morgendorffer_

it's a promise you broke to keep

it's 4 am and no one's getting any sleep

your feet tap a quick cadence on the floor

always looking for something more

you leave your things behind you in a disarray

a mess of everything you'd left to say

the belt of your bathrobe carves a faint trail in the dust

you'd like to deny doing something you must

we wander through vacant halls looking for a familiar face

no wonder it seems faintly out of place

the photograph on the mantel is fuzzy and hard to see

taken behind your back and laughing quietly

these dreams fade into the night roof of your dorm

replaced by what's become the so-called norm

the streetlight casts a vague light on your eyes

you're suddenly blind and it's no surprise

your canvas lies empty and discarded nearby

you don't know the what and didn't ask the why

my failing sight rests on an unread book

it talks about the risks you took

stranded at night alone with a friend

we missed another and waited for an end

brushes splattered with paint litter the night street

you threw them down when you admitted defeat

I wished to say sorry for what I'd done

but when I talked it wasn't to the right one 

so we leave our dreams behind us in the fading ashes

moonlight reflects off my tear stained lashes

I look unto a sickened and empty Lane

shadowed, hollow, and bad-weather-stained

all my fault, New York, all mine

I kill my friends and it's a crime

their petty larcenies are lenient, don't reprimand

I'm just the same and should understand 

please, New York, turn my face away

I can no longer bear to stay

college awaits with open arms, an gentle sleep

I accept my death sentence and it's for keeps

so many corpses clutter the blood-stained trip

remains of a once-treasured friendship

I held out my hand to stop the time

a skip in cadence preserved the rhyme

but is it worth it to stay alive?

perhaps better to die and thrive

often I tried to wrong and you were right

why do I give myself with a dose of spite?

I skipped aside and bravely fell

a ticket (that's "one-way" in hell)

never can I tell you what I meant that day

I was worried and that's not what I meant to say

maybe someday I'll tell you why I lied

I can't say I'm sorry, though I really tried

maybe I can't love or care (him or you)

but what I said's not really true

please say you think so too

****

_Afterword_:

This manuscript was thrown away shortly after completion by the author. Discovered by the author's sister, a model, it was given to me nearly three years ago. It was not intended to surface, but the events it chronicles have passed so long ago, I hope this piece has been forgotten.

It tells the story of two young girls, one of which had a brother named T. T's sister was always scheming to hook up T. with her friend, as she considered them an ideal couple. This came to a head when the three visited the friend's Aunt in New York. T.'s sister accidentally stranded T. and her friend at a pub in Brooklyn late at night, leaving them to get home by themselves. The friend had some harsh words for T.'s sister, and never spoke to either her or T. again (except for once when she spoke to T. over the phone), as they left for home the next morning.

T.'s sister was very upset over this, and when she was taken ill with pneumonia, she never quite recovered. Even to this day she is shockingly thin, and reclusive. Once an artist, she has not painted in several months, though her improving condition signals that she may begin her painting career again.

T. is an aspiring musician, recently contracted by a productive and respected music label. An ominous note is that he remains single to this day.

The friend has not been contacted since this story took place. She recently graduated with her Ph. D. from Harvard.

She was my friend.

_Jane Lane, 2004_

****

The screens glared faintly and summoned their owners with an insistent beep. They woke almost simultaneously, nearly 3,000 miles apart, and rolled over to see what that damn machine was up to. One gasped, a sharp note of pain and fear in her voice, while the other chuckled and coughed faintly. Both propped themselves on their elbows to regard the strange message which had transcended space and time for them in their little isolated bubble worlds. They saw out and watched what went on, it was all glass. No exit. Their bubbles were both their cage and their shield. But the words on the screen pulled them through their glass facade to another long-ago time...

****

The musician sat quietly, and he nodded to himself as he scrolled down the page. Trent easily overcame the narcolepsy that usually plagued him, reading the words that wove a tapestry of friendship, betrayal, sorrow, the final horror and emptiness of loss. He had been betrayed, but only to himself. It surprised him, that, after all those years, Janey'd never said anything to him about _her_. Probably because she'd had this for herself, a silent reminder of what she'd left behind. 

He smiled grimly and thought of the story's verse:

"_you leave your things behind you in a disarray _

_a mess of everything you'd left to say_". How like Janey. This lead him to worrying about Daria. _How was she? _he wondered_,_ pondering the eerie verse of the story. __

__He'd e-mail Janey when he woke up in the morning.

****

Meanwhile, the girl fought back the stabbing blade of memory as she read the words on the page, and she felt a sense of loss, defeat, whatever. She too had been betrayed. 

However, the girl's train of action differed from her mirror's. Daria simply sat, shell-shocked and lonely, on her bed that was too lumpy in clothes that were too warm. She'd expected something of the sort, when she'd seen Quinn take her crumpled story from the waste basket after she'd tossed it away. But not this...

At least Jane had only sent it to her, she told herself, not noticing the "cc:" to Trent in the corner. Bewildered, she typed an almost incoherent e-mail to Jane, finally asking her once-friend to call her.

**Part 2: A Phone Call, or Daria's Reaction**

The day started out sunny, but by noon a thin cloud of gloom had settled on Lawndale. Ah, the perfect ambiance for such a pleasant occasion. Not.

It was two days past the rather intriguing chain of events that had prompted Jane to use her cell phone, a rare occurrence in itself. She had no house phone, and usually kept her cell phone shut off. On the contrary, her computer was often on. She slept little, and was not surprised to find two messages on her computer at 7am the day after she'd written the story. She had e-mailed Trent that she was okay, maybe he'd like to come up next week to see her new picture? But today her mission was a much more important. A phone call to a friend she'd not seen in years...

"rrring"

"rrring"

"Hello?" a voice asked vaguely on the other side. It had changed little in four years, only becoming sharper and more cynical. "Daria Morgendorffer."

"Um, hi. You asked me to call... It's Jane." replied the latter.

"..."

"Daria? You there?"

"Hi, Jane. It's been a while." the voice said quietly, in a tone that made Jane wonder if she'd misjudged on the changing thing.

"Yeah. You e-mailed me, but it was a little chaotic. Something about Quinn being a nosy brat, and I wasn't supposed to read it."

"It was private, Jane. Quinn wasn't supposed to have it. You weren't. No one was. I didn't mean it."

"But... You were sorry, weren't you? And I'm even sorrier, trust me. I've spent the last four years berating myself for leaving you there without a ride. I thought the Tank was working, but that's not really an excuse..."

"It's not."

"You're not sorry, or it's not an excuse?"

"The latter." Daria sighed. "I didn't mean what I said, Jane. I was just so pissed off. I couldn't believe that my friend would leave me stranded in a bad area of the city with her narcoleptic brother. I was right. But I wasn't sure about that at the time."

****

They talked for about fifteen minutes: they were not the best at communicating via phone. Neither apologized any further. It was useless. The damage was done. When they were done they found themselves into a state which resembled a shadow of their former friendship. Not too bad for people who had been estranged for four years.

"Oh. Is this a bad time..."

"Not really. I've just got home from college last week, I sent my editor the third draft of my second book, she's accepted it, so you'll be seeing it in bookstores sometime soon."

"I've got a copy of your first book, you know. It was good, and that's a compliment coming from such a non-booky person as myself."

"Yeah. It's really much better than the story, don't you think? If you were thinking of sending it to a publisher. Good thing you only sent it to me."

"Actually, I didn't."

"_Who did you sent it to?_" Daria asked, praying that what she feared had not happened. Her prayers went unanswered.

"Trent."

Daria sighed. She'd not spoken with her friend in years, and thought that perhaps she had better go see her and find out what damage she'd done. Catch up with the news. See her friend, as Jane really didn't sound herself.

"Listen, Jane, my house is really not the place to be having this conversation. How about I come visit you?"

"Where _is_ your house? I know you're staying with your parents now..."

"I don't have one at the moment, though I'm moving to New York later this summer."

"Oh. Well, I don't know about you driving here. I live in Maine. Northern Maine. Quite a haul from Lawndale, California."

"I could fly. Be there tomorrow. Or I could see you in July, as I'm moving to New York then."

"Interesting that you care so much about seeing me. We haven't spoken in four years, Daria. You think we'll just watch Sick Sad World and catch up with the latest news, right?"

"I guess."

"Daria, then why didn't you call me before? You knew I was sorry. You knew I knew you were upset when you cussed me out that night. Anyone would have been. And it's not like you couldn't have gotten home. As it was, Nick gave you a ride home in his car, and you were stranded for ten minutes. What you were so ticked about's what I'd like to know."

"I... like I said, we could talk about this later. I'll fly up."

"Actually, you _could_ meet me in L.A. I'll be there next week. One of my many siblings has is living there."

"Okay. Wind on another marriage?"

"Yup. This one looks permanent, too!"

"That's what you always say, Jane."

"I'll e-mail you the address."

"Okay."

"Bye."

*click*

****

Both Daria and Jane flopped onto their beds, with slightly shell-shocked expressions on their faces. _Whew!_ They had just spoken for the first time in four years, and it was like (almost) nothing had happened. The story had helped, of course, by paving the way for apologies. And there were still questions, many questions, left to be answered.

But Jane soon rallied, as she had to work quick before she got trapped in her... little change in the truth. She hadn't said Wind was the sibling that lived in California (though she'd let Daria assume that) but she _had_ said she had plans to be there the next week. She'd better make those plans.

****

Trent was half asleep when he was awoken by the ringing of his phone. He'd gotten over his habit of falling asleep all the time, but he'd had a late night.

"Yo, brother. I need to visit you next week. I'm meeting a friend at your house." Jane trumpeted into his ear.

"What friend, Janey?" Trent asked suspiciously. As far as he knew, his sister didn't have any friends.

"Remember my e-mail?"

_That_ got Trent awake. "Your friend _Daria_ is visiting?" he asked, not believing her. After all, neither of them had spoken to her in years.

"Yeah."

"Janey, how do you _do_ this?"

"Fix irreconcilable arguments? Simple. I let her apologize first."

Trent gave up. He didn't want to know. "Whatever. Next week is okay. Do you want me to be out of town?"

"Nah."

"See you then."

"Okay."

*click*

**Part 3: The Preparation, or Quinn Goes Shopping**

Quinn was having a normal day, as far as Quinn's days went. Modeling from 8 a.m. to 12 p.m., home for lunch, and a free afternoon, which she usually spent at her college (afternoon classes.) She hoped to earn a degree in business, and maybe own a fashion boutique. Fortunately, that day she had math, which she was pretty good at, so she wasn't stressed out when the phone rang at 5 p.m. that night.

"Hello." The voice on the other end was icy, and obviously had a bone to pick. "Is Quinn Morgendorffer in?"

"Yes, this is Quinn speaking." Quinn replied briskly.

"It's Daria. Listen, I need to visit someone in L.A., and pick up some stuff for my apartment. Would you mind if I stayed with you?"

"Well..."

"Considering the fact your actions instigated this visit, one expects you would be willing."

"Speak American, Daria."

"You sent Jane the story I threw out."

"And, like, you expected me to throw it out?" She paused, and continued: "That was three years ago. What does that have to do with anything? You aren't expecting _me_ to know."

"She sent it to me. But- Quinn, you sent it to her three_ years _ago? Why is she sending it to me now?"

"Probably because she can. Geez, Daria, haven't you talked to her at all? She nearly _died_ of pneumonia last year, in that drafty farmhouse of hers in Maine. She hasn't painted since then."

"Oh." Daria got the point.

"And if you're going to visit her here, then she must be staying with her brother or somebody." Quinn reasoned, sounding concerned. "We have _got_ to go shopping, your wardrobe sucks. Can you be here at noon tomorrow?"

"Quinn, I'm not visiting her until Monday. Tomorrow is Saturday. And why do I need to go shopping?"

"Daria, trust me on this. If you're going to impress a guy, you need to plan your outfit and your accessories and stuff and-"

"Quinn, what the hell are you talking about?"

"Don't you like that creepy brother of hers?"

"You're worse than Jane. I'll see you tomorrow. And Quinn, why would I? I haven't seen him in four years."

*click*

Quinn stared at the phone, a puzzled frown on her face. Slowly her frown changed to a smile. _Good old Daria. Says one thing, does another_, thought Quinn, and she looked suspiciously like a Cheshire Cat.

****

Matthew walked in to find her asleep on the couch. He'd just come from his job as an assistant director, this time for the movie "3001: A Space Odyssey."

"What's up, honey?" he asked, and plopped down on the couch next to her.

"Nothing much. Daria's coming to visit tomorrow, and she's going to visit a friend of hers. She needs to go shopping." Quinn said, and she told Matthew about the interesting phone call.

"Interesting." remarked Matthew, who had heard about Quinn's sister, her muddled life, and her feud with her friend.

"What's weird is that she sounded weird, and it was - weird." she added, slightly confused herself.

Matthew, who had had five years' experience of interpreting Quinn's often cryptic comments, was not daunted by this seemingly incoherent remark. "She sounded dazed, it scared you, and you're wondering about the fine print of what exactly happened to make her so upset?"

"Yeah, that's the thingy I was trying to say about the thingy."

"Well, ask her when she comes down to visit."

"I can't just _ask_ her, Matthew. She doesn't talk about stuff like that. I don't even know exactly why she was so mad at her friend, something about being kind-of stranded at a bar in New York or something stupid like that. Not like I would believe it or anything. I mean, someone being so upset over _that_? Isn't New York, like, taxi central?"

"I see." Matthew replied, and he began to understand exactly why Quinn was so worried about her sister. Perhaps there were more than two idiosycrasies in the Morgendorffer gene code...

****

Jane packed her bags and checked her flight number again. Her plane departed in five hours and there was a two-hour drive to the airport, so she'd have about two hours left if she saved some time for "emergencies."

She glimpsed her cell phone lying on the kitchen table, and she decided to call her brother. Just... for advice. She'd be seeing Daria in only two days, and she was still trying to figure out why on earth her friend had been so upset that night, June 21, four years past.

Normally, she'd simply have hailed a taxi and gotten a ride home. No problemo. But that night she'd been panicking, finally convincing Nick to put a sleeping Trent in the front of his van, and she'd squeezed into the equipment-packed back. 

_Could Trent have been the reason?_, Jane wondered, and she was not surprised that her instincts were saying yes. However, she knew her friend, and she didn't believe that Daria would panic in that kind of situation. Usually. But what had been different? 

Jane put down the cell phone in her hand. _No use asking for trouble_, she figured, _It'll come knocking of its own accord_.

****

Trent lived in a nice three-story bungalow on Nnak Avenue, and he had just stepped into his living room. Or what would have been his living room. He stared at the floor. It was covered with magazines, records, trash, kleenex... Trent grimaced in disgust, and looked down at the small garbage can he was holding. He sat it on the couch, went into the kitchen, and brought out about twenty heavy-duty trash bags. As the sun shone over a smoggy Los Angeles on a warm Friday afternoon, he began to clean...

He was interupted by a knock on the door about seven hours later, and he put down the-next-to-last trash bag he'd been about to take to the attic for storage. Having cleaned the whole upstairs and downstairs, his back ached and his clothes were dirty.

"My god, Trent, what happened?" asked his sister, startled. She never saw the house clean (she rarely saw it at all) and now it was (almost) spotless.

"Hey, Janey. Just some spring cleaning. You rented a car?" he replied, and gestured to the open door, from which could be seen a reddish Infiniti.

"I did. Pain in the neck to find a cab in this town." She dropped her bag on the floor. "You still got my spare easel?"

"It's upstairs." Trent picked up the garbage bag again. "I'll just take these out to the attic."

"Why are you cleaning the house? I thought you said you were partial to your slime mold."

_Janey_... he sighed. "I have company over. You. I don't want the house to be a mess. Besides, you know what happens with slime mold..."

"I remember what happened to the fruitcake. I only wish I didn't." She winced. "We never did get the orange stain off of the refridgerator, did we?"

"No. Make yourself at home..." Trent disappeared upstairs. His sister followed.

****

Jane carried her stuff (bags, laptop, paint supplies, sketchbook) into the sparsely furnished room off the porch, at the end of the hall. A small wooden sign on the door bore the inscription "Jane's Room."

Inside, her room was a pale red, and some of her paintings adorned the walls. A faded Mystik Spiral poster hung above the bed, and her easel stood alone in the center of the hardwood floor. In the alcove that looked out on the dimly lit street below, there was a small table she placed her laptop on. It was Jane's special place, that room. 

In the summer she lifted the window sash and leaned into the cool night air, as she did that night. It was nearly eleven, pacific time, and a wind had sprung up from the sea. 

Jane pulled herself from the window, shut it, and began to paint on the blank face of a new canvas.

****

Daria woke to a steamy Saturday morning. It was 98 degrees and rising already, at 7 a.m. and the heat beat down like pouring rain on anyone brave enough to venture into the veritable sauna of day. The air was like breathing damp towels. 

She pulled a thin, loose black tee-shirt over her head, and slipped on a old black skirt, one she'd worn in high school. Padding over to the bathroom, she sighed as she realized what sleep and heat had done to her hair. Thick coils of heavy darkness stuck straight out from her head, giving her a hit-by-lightning appearance. 

The day was too warm to leave for Daria to leave her hair down as usual, so she settled for a tight ponytail. She put on her glasses and they promptly fogged up. Back in her room, she snatched her sneakers and slipped them on, grateful for the comfort of worn-in shoes. Grabbing a small tote bag and her laptop in its case, she slipped down the stairs and headed for the kitchen.

It was early for her parents to be up on a Saturday, so Daria was surprised when her mother came down and found her making some tea. 

"Hi, princess. You're up early, aren't you?" Helen greeted her daughter.

"Too hot to sleep. I'm going to visit Quinn in L.A., so I've got to hurry." Daria mumbled, wiping her damp forehead with the back of her hand.. The air conditioner didn't work well in the summer months, and she hated it when there were heat waves like this. She added ice to her milkless tea.

"That's nice, Daria. You're going to spend the whole weekend?"

"Until Tuesday. I have to meet someone in town on Monday, and Quinn says I need to go shopping." She wasn't in the mood to elaborate on the scheme of things.

"Meet who?"

"A friend."

"What friend?"

"Mom, I'm twenty-two, you're not cross-examining me, and it's just Jane."

"Wow, how time flies! I haven't seen her in nearly four years."

"Neither have I..." Daria said quietly, and before her mother could ask questions, she was out the door and in her car. She was enroute to L.A. before she even turned out of the driveway; she'd been expecting that someday an explanation had to be had for the argument, the night, herself, and just everything. _Was it even really an argument?_, she wondered,_ I was the only one who spoke, and I yelled_. 

She drove past the Pizza King, her hair whispering in the breeze as she cracked the window. The heat seemed an omniprescent glaze over the city. She felt as if she was melting into the air as it nipped at her bones, and finally she escaped from the weather into a much less pleasant musing.

Daria herself was still unsure of what she'd done. She'd blown up over a trivial annoyance, a typical Jane scheme of ditching best friend and brother in a parking lot to take another car home. The van hadn't worked, so she'd gotten one of the Spiral to drive them to Aunt Amy's apartment.

Of course, there was a reason. She knew the reason, but for years she'd denied to herself that it wasn't just a fluke of life. Daria's philosophy had been the same for so many years, change came slowly._Better to be alone than be made lonely_, that was it. Jane was her only friend. And when her only friend had crossed the line once more by leaving Daria alone with Trent, Daria's old philosophy kicked in. Quinn was right. Daria cared about Trent, but as always she'd rather suffer than let him know how much. Let Jane know, for a matter of fact. Of course, Jane _suspected_, but the line between how much she knew and how much she guessed was never clear.

Daria sighed, lungs straining with the heavy air. She'd have to tell Jane something. There was always the truth, but Daria was accustomed to ruling that out as an option. Jane... well, either Jane wouldn't believe it or she'd laugh at it or she'd have succeeded in her little mission, and that was the last thing Daria wanted. If only she'd never gone to stay at Aunt Amy's, maybe none of it would have ever happened. Maybe.

It was only Saturday. She'd have until Monday to come up with an excuse.

****

Quinn and Matthew conversed at their breakfast table, speaking of their plans for the day.

Quinn was dressed in a surprisingly inconspicuous white mini-dress, and it was obvious that she had plans featuring the mall.

"So, I figure Daria and I'll go shopping today, pick up some stuff for her apartment, and then we can all meet for dinner at The La Gardenia. Some Italian count owns it, so it's supposed to be _really_ exclusive."

"You know, the owner is actually an Iranian oil sheikh."

"Weird. So anyway, tomorrow we can go visit Jean Paul, and he can do something with that hair of hers." Jean Paul was Matthew's cousin, the hairdresser of choice in LA.It was quite an advantage for Quinn, as he insisted on doing her hair for free.

"Okay." Matthew said agreeably. He was glad that his girlfriend was doing something with her sister; her parents were a touchy ground which she rarely spoke of. However, Quinn often talked about Daria; it was clear that she admired her sister, though she also worried about her. Matthew wasn't surprised. Quinn was a very intuitive person, though not exceedingly bright, coherent, or sensible. He was brought back to the present when the doorbell rang.

"I'll get it!" 

****

"Hi, Daria!" said Quinn, and she hugged her rather surprised sister. 

"Hi." Daria replied, and she hugged Quinn back. She hardly ever saw her sister, and in the years following her graduation they had become closer, even on slightly friendly terms. A rare thing for Daria, who had never had more friends than she could count on the fingers of one hand. Though of course, Quinn could never replace Jane.

"Come in! As soon as you get unpacked, we're going shopping."

Daria raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Where?"

"We could go to the mall, but I do know this wonderful designer who works out of her home. She'd be a little more expensive, but I think it'd be worth the price." Quinn said. She knew that somewhere under that tacky black outfit there was a lovely person who might be even prettier than her, but… she just hadn't seen that side of Daria yet.

"Fine. Just show to my room, sis." replied Daria, who could care less about where she shopped. 

"Right this way." Quinn lead the expedition through the hallway, and stopped in front of the door at the very end, which was partially opened. "It's really a study, but neither of us uses it so we put a bed in it, and now it's your room."

"Thanks." Daria smiled, a singular present coming from her.

****

Daria poked her head in the room. It was painted a dark green, and book-laden shelves lined the walls, stopping only to give way to the door, the bed, or the window-lit desk. It was perfect.

She flopped on the bed, relieved to be free of the relentless heat. Mulling over the events ahead, she remembered the least time she'd even been shopping was for a new outfit, at the Funky Doodle. It was unworn, though; it had lain in her suitcase all these years, as she'd never had the heart to unpack it. It was that retro dress that Trent had once admired, and she had planned to wear it to dinner in New York. But the Lanes had left a day early, before the dinner, so the dress, long outgrown, still lay folded on the bottom of her suitcase.

Daria sat up and pulled the suitcase onto the bed. Rifling through it, she found the folded clothing and took it out. It was as yet unfaded, the glaring orange of the bottom still clashing terribly with the serene black and white checker of the top. She walked over to the mirror on the back of the door and held the two pieces up to her.

No, she could never squeeze into them; when she'd bought it, she'd been five inches shorter and much less filled out. Even so, it looked good, but rather like a child trying to fit into doll's clothing. 

Suddenly the door flew open. 

"Daria are you rea-" Quinn asked rather impatiently, then paused in mid-sentence. "Bring that with you, Daria. I think we can do something with it." 

****

Jane sat behind her computer, IM-ing with Andrea Hecuba, an old friend. ****

**Katch22**: So she's coming to visit you Monday.

**Paintfumes**: Yup. Kind of weird, that's why I IM-ed you. What do you think?

**Katch22**: Not something out of the ordinary. From what I've been hearing from you and Quinn, she was either going to go insane or get triggered by some weird little thing and break her pact of eternal silence.

**Paintfumes**: LOL… IMHO, I suspected as much. But I don't think she'll ever tell me why she was so upset.

**Katch22**: She will, but only if you don't push her. Trust me. I'm taking classes on psychology at UCLA in my spare time, and I bet you ten bucks it has something to do with a guy. 

**Paintfumes**: Twenty says it doesn't.

**Katch22**: You're on. ::car is heard outside:: Looks like I have customers. Oooh… It's Quinn and but big sis. Must go.

**Katch22 has logged off the Internet.**

****

Andrea Hecuba was a former attendee of Lawndale High School, now a proffessional designer well-known in California. She smiled faintly as she looked at her customers. She had expected Quinn might do something of the sort. Daria looked a little reluctant to be dragged into Andrea's living room- turned-designer showcase, but she willingly accepted her fate and sat down on the couch.

"Hello." Andrea said quietly. Noticing the small bundle Daria held, she stretched out her hand and continued, "I assume your sister wants me to do something along the lines of that?"

Daria nodded, passed her the outfit, and replied, "I outgrew it before I found time to wear it." Her voice sounded almost sad, and was tinged with the bitter irony found usually in only her most acidic comments.

Andrea picked it up, shook it out, and laid it on the couch. She turned toward Daria, observing that Quinn had left to talk on the phone outside. "It's not actually that small, Daria. You bought it at a second-hand store?"

"Yeah."

"It's been taken in a little at the sides and we'll have to let the hem down, but I can probably fix it for you as opposed to creating a new outfit. Then again, I suggest you pick out one of the other outfits I've got over there, too, as they're relatively lightweight. This is original '70's polyester, something you _don't_ want to mess with on a warm night. The vinyl, well… let's not go there."

"Promising author melted during heat wave in polyester. Dress to kill, next, on Sick Sad World!"

"You get the drift." Andrea walked over to the rack of clothing she had gestured to earlier. Rummaging through the various articles of clothing, she finally plucked one from the rack. "This one will do. Find some ankle boots and you're in business." She handed it to Daria.

Daria took it, and to her surprise she found that in fact she did like the outfit. A knee-length black slip dress under a long-sleeved black lace dress, it came with black tights, wasn't too pricey, and best of all was relatively modest. "Nice."

"If you need jewelry, my Aunt Rei is a jeweler, and I have some of her stuff. How about a spider?" Andrea held up a silver spider necklace, with deep green emeralds for the body. "Not too expensive, since the emeralds are synthetic."

"I'll take it all." Daria was relieved that, since she did own some ankle boots, her shopping trip was finished.

"You can pick up your other outfit tomorrow. For that, I'd wear gelly platforms."

"Or maybe not, I'm not feeling lemming today. But thanks for your help, Andrea."

"It's nothing. I made you happy, because now Quinn can't drag you all over town for the perfect dress, I made Quinn happy, because she found something for you to wear, and I made myself happy, because now I have another permanent customer and two hundred dollars in the bank."

"Not a bad exchange there."

"Not at all, not at all."

Andrea added up Daria's purchases, and Daria wrote her a check. When Quinn once again appeared, she was glad to find that Daria had found something to wear. As they were leaving, Daria turned around to face Andrea.

"You were right about getting another permanent customer."

"I always am."

****

The chain of events that had bumped her friend off of IM… startled Jane. Very bizarre. Daria and Quinn going shopping together? Well, Jane decided, Quinn must think that Daria wants to impress my brother. Quinn _is_ very perceptive… Jane smiled evilly.She would just wait until Andrea logged back onto the Internet, and find out what Daria had bought.

Sure enough, about an hour later Andrea tried to IM Jane. Jane immediately responded.

**Katch22**: Yo, friend. Nice seeing you here.

**Paintfumes**: What did she buy?

**Katch22**: What, do you think she bought a halter top? ::gasp:: No, she bought a nice black slip dress with a lace overdress. Very pretty, very modest. Also a nice emerald spider necklace, and she had me fix an outfit she'd outgrown so she can wear it. I saw something like that once, in the Funky Doodle. I'd have bought it but it just wasn't me, you know?

**Paintfumes**: Not perchance a dress with a black & white checkered top and a neon orange skirt?

**Katch22**: Yup, that's the one.

**Paintfumes**: Damn. I owe you twenty.

**Katch22**: Ya know, I really don't want to know…

**Paintfumes**: Wise woman, eh?

**Katch22**: If he's into the disco revival, that man has problems.

**Paintfumes**: Ow!

**Katch22**: Careful with the X-acto.

**Paintfumes**: The cut is only mental, buddy. I'm related to that man!

**Katch22**: Don't worry, these times will pass… there _is_ statistical evidence of that… 

**Paintfumes**: Please stop. You're being borderline cheerful.

**Katch22**: Just remind me of my depressing little existence and I'll snap out of it. And if I don't, there's a straightjacket somewhere in the house.

**Paintfumes**: You're so reassuring, you know that Andrea?

**Katch22**: Watch it sister. That's crossing the line, and you know it.

**Paintfumes**: I should really use less of the acrylic. Oils have a nice scent.

**Katch22**: Living up to your nickname?

**Paintfumes**: Screen name.

**Katch22**: Whatever.

**Paintfumes**: Let's go check out a chat room. 

**Katch22**: Would if I could. More inventorying.

**Paintfumes**: Ah, well. See ya.

**Katch22**: Adios, world of the living.

**Katch22 has logged off the Internet.**

****

Jane exited IM, and logged into her favorite chatroom, for which she had the same screen name.

****

**Paintfumes has entered the Sick Sad World in California Chat Room. Also there are PaddedWalls, slimeMoldman, and moltenCHICKEN.**

**Paintfumes**: Yo, my people, whassup?

**PaddedWalls**: Not much other than the usual bombing of foreign embassies. By the way, I'm running low on plutonium, can you share?

**Paintfumes**: No, I've got Russia and China on my blacklist.

**PaddedWalls**: Whew, hefty load there. 

**slimeMoldman has exited the chat room.**

**Paintfumes**: Ooh, we scared the poor little kiddie.

**PaddedWalls**: Congrads, Paintfumes. Cool name, by the way.

**Paintfumes**: Wacko artist, bohemian family, crazy life. It just came so naturally. 

**PaddedWalls**: Likewise. Hey, moltenCHICKEN, are you going to join us or just sit there staring at the screen?

**moltenCHICKEN**: Depends. My name… just came.

**PaddedWalls**: You just thought of it or spent several hours preparing for baptism into the religion of the Old Gods and were given the sacred name.

**moltenCHICKEN**: No, actually I accidentally cooked some chicken on the stove too long and… It was very interesting to say the least. I fell asleep. 

**Paintfumes**: Say, sounds like someone I know.

**moltenCHICKEN**: ::mumbling:: something… in the water…

**PaddedWalls**: More likely the pizza.

**moltenCHICKEN**: You've got a point there. Seems all I do is eat pizza, sleep pizza, dream… [uh, not pizza], sing pizza…

**Paintfumes**: You're a guy, right?

**moltenCHICKEN**: How did you guess?

**PaddedWalls**: Male humanoids happen to have a few animal characteristics in common.

**Paintfumes**: Such as…

**PaddedWalls**: I'll do us all a favor and bleep that little statement out.

**Paintfumes**: I was going to say fast food. Really.

**PaddedWalls**: Sure, Paint, sure. 

**moltenCHICKEN**: So it's safe to assume you're not guys?

**PaddedWalls**: I suppose. ::thinking:: Actually, I'm an alien space goddess. I even have the episode on tape.

**Paintfumes**: Neat-o.

**PaddedWalls**: Crap. Sister threatening bodily harm if not leaving now for dinner bye-

**PaddedWalls has exited the chat room.**

**Paintfumes**: Trent?

**moltenCHICKEN**: Janey?

**Paintfumes**: Was that Daria?

**moltenCHICKEN**: Weird does not even begin to describe this….

****

Daria was, to say the least, not happy to be dragged off the computer. She had been in the middle of a very interesting discussion with some seriously weird people. Not too bad for a person who had been in the chat room for about three minutes.

Quinn had been eager to go to The La Gardenia, and Daria decided not to disappoint her sister by staying behind. Dinner was okay by Daria's standards; but then again she could speak French and had dined at some of the nicer restaurants near Harvard. Matthew and Quinn were mediocre dinner partners ("So what do you think of the US's trade embargo with Iraq?" "Embargo?") and she wished that she were still online. Maybe she could have asked Paintfumes for some advice about the situation she'd found herself in, as Paint did seem a kindred (make that brutal) soul.

"Want to rent a movie?" Quinn asked, noticing her sister's discontent.

"How about 'Apocalypse Now'?" Daria replied, her mind on other things.

"That's kind of a… brain movie."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Let's rent 'Titanic.' That's a neat movie, and it's got all these really cute people in it. It's like, so six years ago, but you won't tell anybody, right?"

"Anything for you, Quinn." Daria said sarcastically.

"Great!" Quinn flashed her million-dollar-smile, pleased with the events that had just passed.

They paid for their dinner and left, giving their waiter a nice tip. Matthew drove them to Blockbuster, where they picked up the movie and some low-fat snacks for Quinn. As they watched the movie in the darkness of Quinn's living room (purpose: so Matthew and Quinn could make out between scenes) Daria felt more alienated than ever. An afterthought to everyone else in the room, she felt lost and lonely as the vibrant story unfolded before her on the TV screen. There came a time when she could no longer stand to watch the movie, and she slipped out of the room undetected. 

Once again alone in her room with her laptop, she logged onto the 'net. Maybe Paintfumes or moltenCHICKEN were still in the chat room…

**PaddedWalls has entered the Sick Sad World in California Chat Room. Also there are Paintfumes and moltenCHICKEN.**

**PaddedWalls**: Hi. Back from dinner. You're still here?

**Paintfumes**: Yup. ::laughter:: You just missed Bumbumman. Undergarment magnate…

**PaddedWalls**: Spare me. ::shudders:: Other than that, what other sickos showed up? I've met cardioDogg, who happens to be part of the Sick Sad World staff. She's usually here on Saturdays.

**moltenCHICKEN**: Yeah, she was here too. I suggested she used Bumbumman for one of her episodes, and I think she took me seriously.

**Paintfumes**: This was before or after you started in on your tirade on cheap guitar picks?

**moltenCHICKEN**: Hey!

**PaddedWalls**: I'm guessing that I missed out on quite a lot?

**moltenCHICKEN**: Not really. The results of my five-year research aren't that interesting, and Bumbumman just kept typing comments about the corruption of the lingerie industry.

**Paintfumes**: I recommended a nice psychiatrist…

**PaddedWalls**: And you would know?

**Paintfumes**: Um, actually I would. I went to see one for a while when I recovering from pneumonia. She was convinced that some underlying problem had caused me to take six months to recover from being sick. Granted, I was in the hospital for nearly a week.

**PaddedWalls**: Oh. Well; my mom's tried to drag me off to one before, but I threatened to sue. Being a lawyer, she really took that to heart.

**moltenCHICKEN**: She's thrilled to have her daughter follow in her footsteps?

**PaddedWalls**: Dammit, you got me.

**Paintfumes**: Such an annoying habit, ain't it?

**PaddedWalls**: And you would know...

**Paintfumes has left the chatroom.**

**moltenCHICKEN**: Um, I gotta go. Nice meeting you, Da-PaddedWalls.

**PaddedWalls**: What the hell?

**moltenCHICKEN has exited the chat room. **

**PaddedWalls has exited the chat room.**

Daria sat back from the screen, and she realized who Paintfumes was. She had a vague idea of who moltenCHICKEN was, but.. that was rather unlikely, in her opinion. Then an evil idea occurred to her. She logged back into the chat room, using moltenCHICKEN's name. The following Info Screen appeared before her:

Screen name: moltenCHICKEN

Name: T. Lane

AOL screen name: Fenderbender

****

**Part Four: The Dream, or Trent's Midnight Conversations**

Trent stood in front of the computer in his room, and he thought of nightfall as the screen dissolved into solid black. Thank God for screensavers. However, he knew it hadn't ended there. He turned to the shadowy figure standing in his doorway.

"A question is asked and an ask is questioned." she said.

"Hey, Janey. What was that all about?" he asked.

"She knew. I screwed up. She's gonna kill me, Trent. Daria- it's not her fault. It's mine. I should have known." Jane shook her head. "I pushed her too far. I was right, I was wrong..."

"Janey... what are you talking about?"

"She can tell you hersef. Monday. Whenever." Jane walked off down to her room, where she began to paint on a blank canvas, violent red mixed with intricate geometric patterns.

Trent sat down in front of his computer, and he tapped the mouse to wake it up again.

****

Daria was typing when Quinn looked in on her an hour later. Quinn had smiled knowingly, seeing this, glad that her sister was apparently in the throes of a new master-piece. Which she was not.

On rare occasions, Daria had submitted poetry to her favorite website for "anonymous authors." It had, to her surprise, won some acclaim from a few of her anonymous friends. Five poems were still posted there.

They were all song lyrics.

Now she sat at her computer, typing some rather abstracted lyrics. Nothing went right, and she put her head down her desk, admitting defeat.

Then her computer beeped.

****

**Fenderbender**: Daria? Are you there?

**Metal_bars**: Yeah.

**Fenderbender**: Sorry we didn't let you know it was us. Jane thought it was kind of funny, actually, seeing you in a chatroom.

**Metal_bars**: Where did she expect to find me lurking, at the anonymous authors website?

**Fenderbender**: ?

**Metal_bars**: Nevermind.

**Fenderbender**: Anyway, after Jane thought you figured out who she was, she was really upset for some reason, and she said some weird stuff...

**Metal_bars**: So you have called upon the talents of the holy interpreter to explain Jane's garbled conversation?

**Fenderbender**: Yup. Besides, it kind of had to do with you.

**Metal_bars**: Oh?

**Fenderbender**: Something like "She knew. I screwed up. She's gonna kill me. Daria- it's not her fault. It's mine, should have known I pushed her too far. I was right, I was wrong..."

**Metal_bars**: Oh.

**Fenderbender**: I asked her about it, and she said you'd tell me Monday or whenever.

**Metal_bars**: Damn you, Jane.

**Fenderbender**: So...

**Metal_bars**: So...

**Fenderbender**: Could you explain that? And why she's painting bloody canvases again?

**Metal_bars**: No. And she always paints bloody canvases.

**Fenderbender**: Oh. Yeah.

**Metal_bars**: I'll see you Monday.

**Metal_bars has logged off the Internet.**

**** 

Daria left her computer on, she stood up, and went to shower. When she returned, she slipped on her old tee shirt and shorts. Flipping off the light, she wearily climbed into bed.

Sleep eluded her for a few minutes before she slid off into the land of dreams.

_She stood in the parking lot. He leaned on a light post next to her, snoring softly. She asked many people, but they were too busy or they didn't have enough room or they wanted her to get the hell of their face. Finally, she turned to the bassist, pleading for a ride home. Taxis didn't run here, in the low-income jumble of broken apartments and barred pawnshops. The bassist was reluctant to drive them home, but agreed to let her sit in the back and let him sit in the front._

_It was warm, and she could see him in the dim light of the parking lot, exhausted and over-heated. She hoped they'd get home before he woke up, he was going to have one hell of a hangover._

_It seemed ages before they climbed into the car, dragging him, still asleep, into the front seat. She vaguely listened to the 10,000 Maniacs song pouring from the pub door, but only hoped they'd get home soon. She worried about him, he'd had too much to drink, rides were so hard to find..._

_At last they arrived at the apartment. She thanked the bassist profusely, and pulled him up the the steps. When she opened the door, she greeted her friend with a mixture of anger and helplessness, in the end locking herself in the room._

_She whammed out sentence after sentence of a violent new Melody Powers story, while various thoughts of pain and violation and oh, whatever raced through her head. It felt like they would swallow her alive..._

Daria woke in the cool room, gasping for air, a thin layer of cold sweat on her skin. Nightmares...She hadn't had them for over a year now. She breathed in slowly. Better.

Squinting to see the fuzzy red numbers, Daria grabbed her glasses, and looked at her digital clock. 5:23 in the morning. She slipped out of her room into the hallway, and made her way to the bathroom with its open window.

The warm outside air, blowing from the inner city, was hot and smoggy and made her cough, but it warmed her. She looked in the mirror at the face reflected there. It was pale from so little time outdoors, thin, and her eyes were still encircled by a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. It was still framed with dark, messy hair. _Had it really changed so much at all in the years since Lawndale High?_, she wondered.

She stepped into the hall again, finding Quinn at her door. She wore a long tee-shirt and a look of concern on her face.

"Daria, what's wrong?" Quinn asked.

"Just everything, as usual. I'll go back to sleep." Daria said, heading up the hall. Quinn caught up to her and put her hand on her arm as she stood in the doorway of her room..

"Please?"

"Quinn..."

"Come sit here." Quinn plopped on Daria's bed. "It's got to do with Jane, doesn't it?"

"Yes. It does." Daria sighed, and she sat down next to Quinn.

****

Jane stood quietly in front of her easel. She had sketched a faint outline on the 3' wide by 2' high canvas, and she was slowly, slowly filling in the delicate outlines with paint. Gradually the picture of a woman gowned in dark green emerged from the stark canvas.

She lay still, eyes closed, on a couch inside a simple (though elegant) room. Whether she slept or was no longer alive was unclear. Her brown hair fluffed around her pale face, framing the part of her eye and nose the viewer could see. On her face was a look of loss, and confusion, as if finally, years of broken life had shattered into a thousand pieces on the floor. One arm her head rested on, the other dangled limply, fingers curved a short distance above the ground. Below, a pair of wire-rimmed glasses sat, almost as if they had fallen from her failing grasp. 

The man with odd, spiky black hair and a goatee knelt before her, robed in black. His hairstyle and six earrings should have looked strange in the vignette, but some how seemed natural, as if they belonged. He looked unto her face with an expression of bereavement and grief. Clutching to his heart a black rose, his thin fingers were speckled with drops of blood from where the thorn had pierced his skin.

The picture showed a disturbing scene of grief and broken dreams. Rarely did Jane painted classical scenes such as these: they took longer, and often did not end up as she wanted, but this painting... was different. It had worked.

A simple title was painted on a thin piece of wood. 

_Ophelia_. 

She painted until she had filled every last bit of canvas with color. She lay it carefully next to the other paintings she'd done that night: three red-slashed geometric designs that took her five minutes. Trash, yes, but some collector'd shell out a fortune for them. 

Jane looked at the clock. Nearly three. Of course, she'd sketched the drawing before (it had lain in her closet for a day) but only two hours and forty five minutes was a record. Exhausted, she took off her clothes, pulled a T-shirt on over her head, and threw herself into the bed. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow. Off to dreamland...

_The dream again. She'd left them at that old pub, assuming her friend would drive her brother home. He was almost passed out, leaning against a street lamp, holding his guitar case. She sighed. Oh, her friend liked him, and she knew her brother liked her friend... They were just wasting time, and she liked to "hurry things up a bit."_

_She drove back to the aunt's apartment. She was out, so no problems with them being home late. Or early. Whatever. She parked the car, climbed up, went in, and helped herself to some leftover pizza. The door bell rang about half an hour later._

_It was her friend and her brother. The van had broken down again._

_"Why do you do this to me? Every time, all the time, I'm sick of it!" her friend exclaimed, continuing on in a similar vein, nearly crying. Finally her friend ran into her room and locked the door. She felt a wave of utter despair come over her, as she looked from her brother to the closed door. She waited for it all to end..._

_But the dream did not stop. She was suddenly thrown through the closed door, and she saw her friend typing furiously at her laptop. The screen was a jumble of words, and just a unexpectedly as before, she was thrown full throttle into her friend's mind. Various phrases drifted around her._

_"...my fault, all my fault..."_

_"...how could she?..."_

_"...what if the bassist hadn't been there?..."_

_"...would he be okay? I was so worried..."_

_"...no ride home..."_

_"...dangerous part of the Bronx..."_

_"...**oh**..."_

_She was pulled back again, but now she stood on the street. A woman walked up to her, dressed in a long blue skirt and henna top that both looked vaguely Indian. The woman looked strangely like her friend. The woman spoke:_

_"Fancy seeing you here."_

_"Odd. You look a bit like..." she replied._

_"The aunt? Yes. You could say I am her. That's how I have chosen to appear to you."_

_"O-kay, then." She was startled, to say the least. "Who are you really?"_

_"Someone. You're not supposed to be here, you know. You belong inside." The woman pointed toward the apartment complex._

_"I... kind of got sucked into someone's mind and..."_

_"Oh. One of those? Listen, you. You have no name here, you are a faceless identity. However, your other self knows something which has made the dream alter course. Like getting lost while taking a short cut."_

_"That I understand. But why am I here?"_

_"Oh, this place?" The woman looked at her watch. "You have fallen into someone else's dream, once more. These dreams... they are visions of the past, but they can be gateways... to other places. Other people's visions. This one belongs to your brother."_

_"What?" She stared at the woman. Her brother hadn't... he'd been passed out. He couldn't be out here._

_"I'm running late for tea. Must go." the woman turned, walking up the street, and she realized that the woman had no shoes on. But before she could move, the woman vanished into the dark, and vast shadows swallowed her up as she disappeared from sight._

****

_He stood inside the living room. His head hurt, and his sister wasn't there. Neither was their friend. He remembered loud voices, and figured they'd been arguing over something. _

_His memory wasn't too clear._

_He went into the kitchen and poured himself some water, drinking it as he put the pitcher back into the fridge. His head still ached, but at least his throat wasn't dry._

_Perhaps the store down at the corner was open. He needed some espresso, and though 11-7's was not the best, it was certainly potent. Slipping out into the warm night, he saw the shadowy figure just out of reach of the lamp light. She was always there._

_But when he reached the bottom, he found that someone else had replaced her._

_"You?" he said in astonishment. _

_"Me." replied his sister._

_"Where is she?"_

_"I kind of... fell in here. I talked to her, and she left. You know her?"_

_"Yes. I'm going for espresso."_

_His sister nodded. Knowing her brother's habits, unfazed was her expression. "How do you know her?"_

_"I'm going out. I need espresso. Every time, she's here. She tells me what she has to say, and then she goes."_

_"Oh."_

Suddenly, Trent woke up. He could here Janey running down the hall. She stopped in the doorway.

"You had the dream?" she gasped breathlessly.

He nodded, and looked at the clock, noting that it was only 5:23 in the morning. 

"Let's talk later." he said, and they both went back to sleep.

**Part Five: The Woman, or The Story Acquires New Depths**

Jane walked into Trent's room and woke him up.

"Yo, brother. It's Sunday. Wake up." she said, shaking him.

"What? Oh. We were going to talk, or something." Trent yawned. He'd had a hard time getting back to sleep after the dream, he always did.

"You knew the woman outside the apartment complex. Who was she, Trent? How did you know her? Is this why Daria-"

Trent cut her off. "No, Daria doesn't know who she is, she's never heard of her, no one has except for me. As for who she was - well, she said that for me she'd chosen to appear as Daria's aunt."

"That's what she said to me, too. But that's not what I asked. I asked who **was she**, not who did she **appear as**."

"I guess the only answer I can give to that, since I really don't know how to say it, is a gypsy."

"Huh?"

"She said she was a roaming spirit, that she had some advice for me. And no, that advice is not any of your business. It was really more like fortune-telling than advice giving."

"Come on. You couldn't tell lil' ol' me?"

"Janey, you wouldn't know lil' ol' you if it bit you on the ass."

"Score: one for the brother, none for the sister."

"Hey, sure beats ping-pong. I always lose."

"Can you just tell me what kind of thing she said?"

"Okay. She said something about something which I thought I knew but I wasn't really sure, and she said that if I didn't shape up and uh - take action or something in the next five years, I was destined to life as a lonely hermit."

"So you're starting your porn career when?"

"JANEY!"

Jane ran out of the room before her brother could throw his pillow at her. Shouting cheerfully, she replied "Last one to the kitchen has to make the pancakes!"

****

Trent eyed the stack of pancakes greedily. _Yummm..._ he thought. Pancakes were his favorite food, especially when he'd didn't have to make them. Oh well. Janey was going to get up late sooner or later, and then she'd have to do the honors.

"What's up with the pancakes, Trent?" Jane asked, her mouth full of them.

"Nothing. Just plotting how to get revenge for being forced to eat my own cooking again." he replied.

Jane swallowed her pancake. "But your cooking is better than mine!"

"Yeah, but I have to get out of bed to make it."

"You'd rather eat my noxious fried batter than your gourmet crisp if you don't have to get out of bed?"

"Yeah."

"Trent, who ever invented the word 'slacker' had you in mind."

"And who ever invented the word 'exaggeration' had you in mind..."

"Very funny."

"If you think so. How many of those bloody paintings did you make?" Trent asked, hoping to change the subject.

"How many of those bloody damn pictures did I paint? Four. How many of them were bloody? Three."

"Actually, I wasn't insulting them, I-"

"I know, Trent, I know." Jane shook her head. She had just been trying to be funny, but he was taking it so seriously! _Must have something to do with the Dream_, she thought. _Or perhaps Daria..._

****

Quinn pulled her thin red hair away from her face, and held it in place with two expensive-looking Swarovski crystal barrettes. She was rather tired after her late-night talk with Daria, and she didn't feel like fixing an elaborate 'do.

Of course, Daria hadn't told her the whole story before. When it happened, Quinn was only a sophmore, and a very shallow and fashion-obsessed one at that. Daria still had a hard time over some of it, and Quinn felt like... slipping. Yup, that was it. You almost had what she was getting at, then it drifted away, slipping from your grasp, and you were almost scared of what you saw before you had to let go. Quinn was both upset, and afraid. She wanted what Daria had, a love that could be put on hold for four years and still stay strong, and she was scared of it because it mattered so much.

****

_The mysterious woman in the long blue skirt and the henna top disappeared into the shadows._

_Ah! Where was she? She was supposed to be at her laptop, typing a rather violent story, and now she stood on the street in front of the apartment. A strange person who looked much like her aunt had just ran past her into the shadows. The dream never changed. What was going on?_

_Abruptly, the streetlights seemed to be swallowed in the thick mist. A person behind her said:_

_"Hello. You'd be making an appearance too, I suppose."_

_She just looked at the person quizzically._

_"Your friend and her brother went off that way. Your friend has had quite a night too, being tossed into her brother's dream." The person continued. The mist cleared up a bit, and she, having turned around, was able to see figure of a tall, skinny man._

_"Whose dream am I in?" she asked._

_"No one's but your own. You are here to hear my words."_

_"Okay, then. I'll hear them, but I really would like to get back to my laptop."_

_"You're not in that dream, Daria. You're in a paralell universe, the other side of your dream. The dream-self that represents you is inside. If you had moved, the whole dream would have changed. So your dream-self will stay put, and it's time for your subconcious to come for a visit."_

_"Why? I'd rather stay in my usual nightmare. At least it's bearable."_

_"Who said this is a nightmare? It is only a little conversation between your subconcious and the powers that be. One power in particular, actually, me." _

_"I'd like to wake up soon, so could you get to the point?"_

_"Sure." The guy, whose voice sounded vaguely familiar, stepped of the dark._

_"Lurhman!"_

_"Yup. The woman who ran past had other errands to run, so she pulled me out of my dream to help you. She's an old friend."_

_"Who?"_

_"She goes by Diana Artemis."_

_"That's her real name?"_

_"Pick one. The Romans called her Diana, the Greeks called her Artemis."_

_"As in Diana, goddess of the moon? No way, Lurhman."_

_"Yes way. I'm her... helper, I guess is the phrase. I deliver dream messages when she's busy. Of course, I don't do that for a living. I'm rich, I own a 50 - restaurant chain of 'Happy Burger.' Privately I call it 'Happy Hell.'Anyway, she would have spoken to you personally, she's a great fan of your writing, but I offered to do the job."_

_"Okay..."_

_"Your message reads as follows:" He peered at a cue card in his hand. "Congradulations! You have won... Oops. Wrong one. Here it is: Hello, Daria. You have reached a conclusion about your actions four years ago. I did not expect you to do so, but perhaps the loneliness you have felt in these years since has changed you. Before you visit, remember that your feelings for Trent have not changed. His have, though for better or worse I won't tell you. Your choice whether to act on these feelings is your own, but it will promise only loneliness if you leave again. Loneliness forever. And you do matter to him, but as friend or more you'll have to decide yourself._

_"Your friend will try to stand by you either way, but she is different from the unflappable Jane Lane of Lawndale. She is vulnerable. Pneumonia has left her frail and life has left her broken. She is learning how to live again, how to fly, and what you do can make or break her wings._

_"Your sister is a minor player, but she has used you as a role model. She is in her first real relationship, and she will look to you for guidance. What happens to you will be a mirror in her own life, and she will never be quite so confident again. She doesn't want to have to be the strong one, and she's not ready for that._

_"But there is one person who will hurt more than any of these. You. Your life can shatter if you don't take a risk, having a taste of the life you once had will break you if you're lost again. If you take a risk, and it fails, there is no one to fall back on. Your parents are old, your sister is too young, your other friends have been alienated by you, and Jane is too frail to help you. You are the strong one. If you fall it will be hard and it will hurt everyone around you._

_"It's your choice. I hope these years have helped you when they hurt you. You cannot have one friend without the other." Lurhman stopped, and he looked at her. "That's what she said."_

_"What the hell does that have to do with Monday? I'm not even going to see him." She asked, confused._

_"I see. But better to be prepared. Monday holds surprises."_

_She said nothing, but looked at the sky and only wanted the ignorance she'd had before._

****

"No... Please god, no." Daria murmured. "I will, I promise, just, I need time..."

Quinn shook her sister again. "Daria! Wake up! Are you all right?"

Daria opened her eyes. "Yeah. Just... sleepy, had a bad dream. I'll be up in a few minutes."

"Okay." Quinn left.

Daria sat up in bed. She'd not told Quinn about the Dream, and she didn't intend to. Especially after Lurhman's little informative talk. So she got up and pulled on her usual outfit of a white tank top, blue skirt, and sneakers. She had barely finished lacing her boots when a noise startled her.

"...beeeep...beeeep..."

The computer muttered loudly.

Daria opened it up and logged onto the Internet to find her new message. She looked at it with interest, as she'd never seen the address before: _bummer@happyb.com_. It read:

**advice from the Lurhman himself:**

**If it pisses off your parents, consider it. If it doesn't really matter, write it off. If it makes you happy, do it. **

**Last but not least, if it hurts, it should be worth it. If it isn't, than don't take any crap from anyone and get the hell out of it.**

She raised her eyebrows. _The Dream strikes again_.

****

In Northern California, several hours away:

_A man stood in the shadows of a porch overhang, speaking to a woman in a leaf-green dress. They spoke quietly, trying not to attract attention to themselves. **Damn nosy neighbors.**_

_"How did your mission go?" the woman asked. She moved into the sunlight,which shone on her silken apricot hair. _

_"Well enough. Your message has been delivered." the man replied. He was tall, with a crop of hair that looked like frizzy sand._

_"I only wish I could work as well during the day. Dreams are relatively effective, but when I'm able to speak to them it works better. Though the majority of orthodox Christians don't care for me."_

_"You're a goddess, and for them your status is that of an angel. You startle them."_

_"Point. I just wish that this time Aphrodite would let me meddle a bit more. It's just so dangerous to let mortals choose their own fates. It hurts people, Lurhman, you've seen that."_

_"Di, it's her department. She worries that she'll screw it up, and she's not touching anything more either."_

_"You do have a point. It's nice to have a relatively sane mortal as a friend." The woman called Di stood up, and looked at the man. "But this time, it matters. It means two people's deaths, and two's ruin. It means everything. Even** I** can figure that out.."_

_"Di, what are you talking about?" the man called Lurhman asked sharply._

_"Daria is not well, my friend. She's been hurt badly inside; she's alienated by her peers and denied the only two things she ever wanted: friendship and someone's love."_

_"Her sister's a friend for her. Her parents love her."_

_"Her sister is not the friend she wants. Quinn offers nothing and asks for everything that she cannot give. Her parents love her in offhand fashion and that is not the kind of love she needs. She is one of the few people who can give or feel that kind of love..." Di paused and frowned. "They don't have an English word for that, but those who called me Artemis did... **Agape**, that is the kind. It is a spiritual love which is stronger than casual romance or simple flirtation. It is an unbreakable link between two people, that can never be changed. Those who deprive themselves of it die the slow and painful death, they waste into fragile shadows of what they once were. Most who can feel or give this **agape** lived with little love or true friends, and that is why it is so strong."_

_Lurhman paused, thinking over this. "But how is it they can stay apart?"_

_"She is very strong, having survived by herself for most of her life. Very, very little love or caring has ever touched her, and often she carried the burden of her entire family. She was their binding thread while she grew up, and watching how her dysfuctional family struggled to be competent made her hard and cynical. Few others even tried to accept her, and she became isolated from people in her everyday life. The Lane family were the only people to ever** truly** know her, to accept her, to care about her. And it is still very hard for her to acknowledge that they do, that she cares."_

_"But what about the young man? Trent?"_

_"He tries to keep himself ignorant. He has very much the same situation as Daria. He saw little of his mother, he had to raise his sister, and they were they only two people to care about him until he met her." Di shook her head. "This will only lead to tragedy if she makes the choice she would have four years ago. If she simply puts it off, he will too, and it will pain him greatly to be around her and not have her. Too much. He will leave both her and his sister when Jane needs him most. And Daria will leave too. She will assume that she deserves the blame and pain of her action. She will write one book as her friend tries to fly alone. The book will soar but neither will she or her friend be so lucky; Jane will keep on trying but **she** will not. She will prefer to end her life quickly rather than waste away as before. Her sister and her friend will be hurt badly and they may never recover. Trent will find that the only place where he can find solace is the unruffled silence of death. And slowly, slowly the survivors will waste away." Di stopped and allowed Lurhman to realize the desecration and pain that might lie ahead._

_"Di. Will they..." He couldn't speak._

_Di shrugged. She bit on an expensively-manicured nail for a second, then answered. "I don't know. But it is rare that two such people should find each other. Tragedy is not the word, my friend, it is too kind."_

****

Daria and Quinn were flopped on the couch. Daria snored softly, and Quinn was reading the lastest "Cosmo." It was about four in the afternoon, and they had returned from Daria's shopping trip about an hour before. She was now the proud owner of a new tea kettle, some nice dishes, some bed linens, and a brand new laptop computer. The latter was definitely her favorite purchase.

Quinn looked at her. Even in sleep, Daria's deadpan expression rarely dropped away from her features, but now she smiled faintly at the ceiling, and Quinn wondered who she was dreaming of. Daria had never really cared much for "stuff," the only things that really mattered to her were her stories and her friends, and Quinn wondered sometimes what she was missing out on.

Quinn put down her magazine and walked over to the loveseat. She lay down, curled up, and settled in for a long nap.

**Part Six: A Oxymoron, or Quinn thinks **

Jane was very tired. She'd not gotten her eight hours' sleep the night before, and pneumonia had weakened her immune system tremendously. She never jogged. If she even slighty exerted herself, she was exhausted.

"Trent? I'm going to take a nap on the couch." she called out to her brother around two.

"Okay." Trent replied. He wasn't planning on practicing his electric guitar on a Sunday anyway, so he went upstairs to polish the lyrics to his latest song. His acoustic wasn't too loud with the door shut.

It was a little song he'd made up years ago. The band he belonged to, Underground Python, had decided to put it on their upcoming album. The rhythm was different than the original song, though, once folk, it was now a mix of soft drums and electric guitar. He liked it.

The upstairs portion of the house was quiet. He leaned against the bed's headboard. The Dream was bugging him again. He'd almost figured out the woman's last sentence, but something still mystified him. What had she said again?

_The woman spoke quietly. "Trent, you have little time to fix your life. Your sister's in pieces, your band's in pieces, and the only friend you've got refuses to speak to you."_

_"Daria? She's- **Janey's** friend." Trent said. What did this woman know about him? Who the hell was she? Why couldn't she just let him go get his damn espresso?_

_"Is that so? I can name many times that you proved she was more -**much** more. Trust me, young man, neither Monique nor any one of your groupies is worth it. I am here to warn you."_

_"About what?"_

_"The girl in there-" She gestured to the apartment. "Cares. About you and your sister, more than anyone else. Your sister has been the only real friend she's ever had, and you... mean a lot to her, more that just as a friend. If you act as if you don't, and as if she means nothing, you will ruin everything she offers. Inside of five years you will have to choose, and what you choose can kill you."_

_The woman turned and walked away into the darkness._

Trent sat, Indian-style, on his bed, and he considered these words. He'd stopped drinking and smoking years ago, that couldn't be what she was talking about. _What did she mean?,_ he wondered, _Does it have to do with tomorrow?_ He shook his head.Surely Daria had stopped caring about him years ago. Of course, he still cared about her.. But Daria was a successful author, she was smarter and savvier that she was in high school. She _couldn't_ still care about the good-for-nothing musician who lived with his parents until he was twenty-three.

He sighed. Whatever message the woman had been trying to tell him, it certainly wasn't pertinent after all these years.

****

_Di grimaced._

_"He's not making any sense of what I said, Lurhman. He's just passing it on by. How can he think it doesn't matter anymore? **How** can he think she doesn't love him anymore, when she thinks about him every night, when he writes songs for her every day?" Di said angrily. She turned to face Lurhman, about to cry. "I've tried everything, everything I could do. How can they do this to themselves, to push away the only thing they've ever wanted?"_

_Lurhman shrugged. "Di, I know Daria. Not as well as Jane or Trent, certainly, but much better than you. She does what she wants to. And most of the time she walks away from what she loves. But she has grown up. She was mature for a teenager, but even then she was not fully grown. I'm not talking about her height or her figure, but her perception of herself, the world, others around her. When she was younger, she observed the screwed up little world she lived in. Now she is understanding **why** it is a screwed up little world."_

_"What does that have to do with anything? I only wish I was as wise as Athena, that I knew all the answers. It seems that while I have the gift to change things, only my sisters and brothers are smart enough to figure out how to change them."  
"Look, whatever happens is not your fault. You've tried your hardest, and that's more than any of you siblings have done." Lurhman leaned against the porch railing. "Let them have time to act. All I was saying is that Daria will not do what you want. She will do what she wants, and that may or may not be the same thing."_

_"Yes..." Di smiled. She liked happy endings, and maybe, if she just let things alone.._

****

Daria realized that Jane had forgotten to give her directions to the house. She sighed, and picked up her cell phone. She dialed the number Jane had given her.

"rrring."

Some one picked up the phone.

"Hi, this is Daria Morgendorffer. Can I speak to Jane?" she asked.

"Hey, Daria. Janey's sleeping." a familiar voice replied.

"_Trent?!?_"

"Well, this _is_ my house, you know."

"Jane said she was staying with Wind..."

"Strange. He lives in Phoenix."

"Oh." Daria frowned. _Jane..._ "That's odd. I guess I'll be seeing you tomorrow, then."

"I've missed you."

"Um, yeah, me too. Bye."

*click*

Both Daria and Trent hung up their phones and flopped on their respective couches. _What have I done?_

****

Quinn left her sister in the living room. She walked out onto the balcony off her bedroom. It was nearly six, and a cool breeze was blowing, wiping away the scorching heat of the day like a Bounty paper towel wipes away spilled Kool-Aid from the unblemished Formica of a kitchen counter.

She stared out into the sky, worried. Oh, for her sister, she ached so much. Daria had so many opportunities, it seemed, and then her world collapsed into a tiny bubble of work. Work to get by and forget.

When it seemed that Daria finally could settle for this day-to-day flurry of papers and notebooks instead of the friendship and love she longed for, those whispers of memory from her past came back to haunt her. Damn them for their intrusion. Oh, for the days of paper rustling solitude, which her sister wanted more than anything to leave, but the only sanity was found within. Now Daria fought with the ghosts of memory and the contrary nature of her own self. 

Quinn, well, she didn't care so much as she worried for herself. Would she ever love Matthew enough? Was "the most" enough? Would Daria's troubles be mirrored in her own life?

She never gave another thought to helping her sister, she only worried for herself. And that was why the two Morgendorffer girls were so different. Daria didn't try to reach out because she was afraid if being hurt; Quinn didn't simply because it didn't occur to her most of the time that others might need help. 

A shadow passed over her face, and she looked up to find Matthew standing over her.

"Hi." Quinn smiled weakly.

"What's wrong, honey?" Matthew asked, noticing that Quinn seemed upset.

"It's- It's" She tried to force the words out, but they wouldn't come. "Daria. She's upset because she doesn't think he loves her enough and she doesn't want to tell him and I don't want that to ever happen to us and I'm worried I don't love you enough, and, oh, Matthew..."

Quinn burst into tears and Matthew held her tight. After a few minutes she felt better, but she still held him. She felt safe, warm, and happy, and he was glad she was alright. Quinn meant so much to him.

****

Jane woke up from her nap at about six-thirty that night. She felt refreshed, and she headed to the kitchen for some espresso (Trent had purchased an espresso machine) and perhaps a bagel.

She was surprised to find a message from Daria scrawled on the memo pad in Trent's almost illegible scrawl. Added was a message from Trent himself: **Gone shopping for edibles. Back by seven. Why does Daria think you're staying with Wind? Love, Trent.**

Jane sighed. Damn. She'd been found out. And now Daria was just going to _strangle_ her... **_Real_**_ happy perky day ahead tomorrow,_ thought Jane.

She found some highly potent espresso, and sipped it as she munched on a Krispy Kreme donut. Not exactly gourmet, but definitely a 99.9 on the Yummi Scale.

Opening the newspaper the "Arts" page, she read with satisfaction the name of the #5 album.

Underground Python's _Death by Guitar_.

The smirk that graced her face grew even wider as she duly noted the #1 single on the Indie/ Rock/ Alternative Charts.

Underground Python's _Grenade Polka_.

Yes, this had been a very good week for Trent. Now if he could only get around to asking Daria out... or any reasonable facsimile...

Yeah, right. And Sir Isaac Newton's marriage to Cleopatra would air on public television in the nine o'clock news.

****

Trent strummed a lifeless E chord on his guitar. It rang faintly, and then faded into the silence. He knew that he cared about her, more than he ever had before. _Okay_,_Dream Lady, you win._

He wondered if the woman was right, if Daria really cared about him at all. It seemed too much to hope for, that the only person he'd ever really cared about that way, the only person he'd ever really loved, could care about him. _The smartest teenager I know_, he thought, _Only she's not a teenager anymore._

Trent had always been afraid to ask her out. She was so much younger than him (five years) and usually seemed all the wiser for it. Other times, she almost seemed to crack under the burden of being _too_ smart, of being the only thing that held the Morgendorffers together. She was far more often snubbed than appreciated by her peers and family, and only a few had discovered her true genius. Some were the critics that had lavishly praised her book. The others were a few friends at school (Andrea Hecuba, Jodie Landon) and the Lanes. And the only people of these bunch that Daria had ever honored by calling them "friends" were the Lanes.

Trent thought that, perhaps, Daria _did_ like him.

****

Jane wandered up to her room when she heard faint strains of music coming from Trent's room.

_is anybody home? _

_is anybody there? _

_i've been knocking for so long _

_so please just say you care_

_ _

_you open up your eyes _

_you open up your ears_

_you shut your quiet mouth _

_a recourse from your fears_

Jane was surprised at the pulsating music and the heavy theme of the lyrics. _Wow_, she thought as she walked down the hallway,_ He's really gotten good. Or perhaps, a little inspired_...

She ambled into her room and placed her half-empty espresso cup on the desk. Picking up her charcoal and sketch pad, she began to draw a small chiaroscuro portrait, one that seemed to grow out of the page. It was a small picture of Daria and Trent that Jane had a photo of. They stood in front of the statue of Liberty in New York, Trent putting bunny ears behind her head (she didn't notice) and Daria gazing up at him, her cheeks pink with the sun and the fact she was so close to him.

Jane labored over the smallest details in the picture. Finally, when it was done, she picked up one of her mother's stained-glass mosaic frames and placed the sketch inside. A perfect fit. It was beautiful, a lovely contrast between the sea-green, water-blue, fire-red, honey-gold, and amethyst-purple of the glass and the graying black and white of the sketch.

Last, she removed from her closet a plain black bag with silver tissue paper inside that she'd bought earlier. Carefully wrapping the fragile frame in the paper, she placed her masterpiece in the bag. S_ome would call it a bribe_, Jane thought, _Some would call it a peace offering. I think I'll stick with a simple "debt being paid_".

****

It was nearly ten at night, dinner long past, when Daria looked into her closet to find an outfit for the next day. Disco dress? _No way. Too special. Besides, too damn **perky**._ Lace slip-dress with ankle boots? _Nah, too dressy._ Normaloutfit? _Nope, too ordinary_. Black tee-shirt and blue jeans?_ Casual, but okay. Nothing **that** out of the ordinary._

She lay it on her chair, and she climbed into bed. She was not exhausted, but sleep was the only way that she would stop worrying about the next day. However, even that wonderful substance failed her for several hours, as she lay sleepless for nearly three hours, finally drifting off at about 12:30 am.

****

Quinn rolled over in her sleep, away from Matthew. She grasped desperately at her smiley-face pillow. _Falling, falling, falling..._

_She stood up and dusted off her outfit._

_"**OH, NO!**" she screamed, realizing it was her smiley-face tee-shirt and bell-bottoms, which were now, like, **sooo** unfashionable. She stared in horror at the person in front of her. "THIS IS HELL!"_

_Lurhman chuckled."Nope, it's just your sister's dream. Relax. It may be hell for you, but it certainly isn't **permanent**. If Daria knew you were here, now, that'd be a different story."_

_"Oh." She breathed deeply. "So this is, like, a nightmare or something, and I should just relax and soon it will be all over?"_

_"It's **not** a nightmare. Di has sent me on one last 'rescue mission' and she's chosen you as her last resort."_

_"Uh, okay. So you're going to suck my soul out and give it to the devil? No! I won't let you win! I'm a Catholic or something! God, like, help me!"_

_Lurhman sighed. "I am not an evil emissary of the devil nor do I engage in any type of Satanic practices, Quinn. I am simply an apprentice of... you might call her a guardian angel, I suppose. A big guardian angel that likes to guard everyone."_

_"I didn't understand all the big words, but I guess that means you're good. Right?" Quinn said._

_"Yup. So anyway, I want you to try to do what I say. You don't have to follow my advice, but if you do, you will help your sister and yourself. Got that?"_

_"Yeah."_

_He continued. "One: Don't give your sister advice. On anything. Not even make-up or clothes or dinner or buying a Japanese poodle. Zip. Zero. Nada. None. Likewise, don't ask her advice. Two: If she asks why, just tell her you're busy. Three: Don't try to include her in movies and stuff like that. You're just hurting her. Four: Try not to be availible a lot. Go to amusement parks with Matthew, you get the drift. Five: I will be back to tell you when you can stop following these instructions. Don't worry, you won't forget them."_

_She considered the idea for a moment, then nodded. "Okay, I'll do it."_

_"Thanks." replied Lurhman._

Quinn woke up.

****

_ _

_The night is heavy with darkness, the trees' boughs quiver under its oppressing glaze, tremble with thick-snow-covered branches. The ground lies still under its coat of unbroken white. It is cold, a razor-sharp kind of cold, something she barely feels as she stands barefoot in a thin tee-shirt on the chilling sheet of ice covering the pond._

_Her hair is whipped around her face by the frigid wind. She looks around for others, but she is alone in this place seemingly forsaken by mankind. For a few seconds she simply stands. Now she is feeling the cold of this place._

_Then she sees the light. Three people bask in the glow of a warm fire, far across the pond, on the other side, on the edge of the sprawling evergreen forest. A brother and a sister, a mother, all smiling, happy with each other._

_Oh, how she longs for this kind of happieness, but she fears it too. Too much to go toward them, no matter how much she wants to be warm again. The cold of her soul was nothing compared to this desolate land._

_The sister looks up, sees her, beckons to her to come over. The mother smiles and waves. The brother stands and holds out his arms to her, and she begins to run towards the warmth. She is no longer afraid, and she runs, slipping and sliding on the glassy ice. Her hair is tangled in the wind, it slaps like a whip across her face._

_Oh, she runs and she runs, but she seems to get no closer. They still hold out their arms in expectation, and she hurries._

_But prices are to be paid for her haste. She falls, her glasses smash on the ice. She squints, but she cannot find the light. Still, she gets up, and tries to run on, but in the blur of dark, ice, and wind she finds nothing._

_She falls again, this time she smashes through the ice. Sinking, sinking, drowning, she is freezing. Frigid water fills her mouth, her lungs, she cannot get out... Black is coming, all consuming, ice and dark and smashing glass **and** **she can not get out...**_

Daria screamed in her sleep.

**** 

_Blue... there is water. Surrounding her. She pushes herself out. Breathing again. Warm water caresses her pale skin, she wants to stay in, but still she keeps her head above the gentle lolling of the waves. It is like being born again, coming blind into this world where there are people. She stretches her arms out for love, for friendship. Her mother is there again, but when she is beginning to see again mother must go, and she is looking again, always looking up, looking out._

_Her brother, one she has always relied on, stays, and she is safe. She is still looking for that special kind of caring which she has never found, that is the **agape** kind of loving, but she is content. All she lacks is the friendship that she once had, and she stretches out her fingers and reaches for her friend, her confidant, the only other that matters. She is grasping air, then a thread, she tries to reel her friend back in, but her friend is not looking like she is for love, has found it and is afraid of caring, of loving._

_She is cast away again and she's still reeling, she's falling. Her brother can't be there for her 'cause he's already fallen, her mother is too far away and she cannot see what has happened to her youngest because she is blinded by her son's tragedy. Everything is black again and there's no time for a resurrection and she longs so to go back to the water, it's so warm and it will swallow her sins and her problems, an acceptable kind of defeat. Again, 'cause it's so comforting, she'd really like to sleep. Night time has come again, the wine is no solace, the knife looks awfully tempting and her sun has drifted from her solar system. The paintings are dark and brooding and the red has faded into a purply-blue haze. She's not looking anymore, she doesn't count the days. Sometimes she tries to look up from the abyss but it only gets darker, and soon, she promises herself, she will go back to the water..._

Tears dripped softly down Jane's sleeping face, and she rolled over and buried her face in the pillow. 

****

**_Warmth_**_. He is happy here, in the dusk and the dark, they are old friends. He has made a new friend this day. He's had only the few before. It's not like he needed more. The Lightning Seeds croon their latest hit over the stereo, and he looks at her. He is remembering, he knows what will follow so shortly after. But he still thinks of the time he drove her home from Alternapalooza. He's seen her cynical facade crack a little bit, it's good for them both, a little less serious. A little more loose._

_She smiles softly, a gift rarer given than Scrooge's gold. Leans against her seat, and he watches her hair drift around her face. The coolest high-schooler he knows, and soon more will follow. Later he will try to tell her but it just can't work out. He's too loose, she's too focused. He only wants her to be happy but he's afraid that her paradise doesn't include him._

_Even now, when he is looking at the pictures of them in Lawndale, or New York City, he can still see the faint glimmer of self beneath her "square" facade. It's so much easier for her, this unpopularity. She doesn't have to compete. She keeps her cool, though, even when she has peanut butter on her ass, a bug bite on her arm, a bruise on her head. _

_Always, always, when he is most upset or lost or just unhappy, he will think of her. She is most beautiful then, dressed for the festival, in blue jeans and black tee-shirt. That's nothing out of the ordinary for anyone but her. **Are memories enough?** He only wishes, to have her back this day._

Trent snored softly.

****

The birds were singing, and it was just another "morning in the 'burbs." Except it wasn't in the 'burbs, it was L.A. Smog cluttered every pure and clean nook or cranny, defiling them with its dirty gray mist. It was hot enough to burn the trash off the filthy sidewalks.

Oh, yeah. And for Daria, it certainly wasn't just another morning. 

Daria woke slowly. Her alarm by some miracle didn't go off, but still she woke at eight that morning. Rising from her bed, she found her glasses and carefully settled them on her nose. Brushing her unruly hair, she looked in the mirror a bit more than usual. She put on her jeans, her black t-shirt, and her pair of Doc Martens.

"Dariaaaaaaaaaa! I've got breakfast? Ready?" Quinn yelled from below.

"Yeah. Coming..."

_Ready for anything..._

the end.

Notes:

1. This is my last Daria story. (Oh, I can hear the screams of agony already.) I know I'll miss writing Daria, but I think that I've dragged the poor characters through every unlikely-but-possible scenario (see Behind The Pom-Poms) and even unlikely-and-impossible scenarios (see Prelude, which is currently only on ff.net, but check soon on Outpost Daria. I'll get around to sending it out eventually.) Daria is a great show, and I wouldn't want to start writing crappy, OOC fanfic because its boundaries of reason are too limited for some of the psycho stories I write (see Prelude, again.) That doesn't mean I won't be busy reading and Beta-reading fic though! So, kisses and hugs to everybody out there… and if you like Harry Potter, I may be debuting a Potter fic soon….

2. Yes, we all know that Daria belongs to MTV. But I am NOT liable, according the Supreme Court decision regarding Campbell vs. Acuff Rose Music. And blah and blah and blah. Besides, why the hell would you want to sue me anyway?

3. This took a long time, a lot of revisions, and it was also written while I was conjuring up another, longer story, which still is not done. Hence, seven months' passage between stories three and four. Also, my friends who have seen my wee and miniscule website may note that this story was also posted there for a bit, in one of its other incarnations. Like crappy websites? visit my band's at [www.geocities.com/angryrainbows/][2]

4. I hope you enjoyed this. I'd like to thank all you fanfic authors out there for inspiration, especially Canadibrit, who has been kind enough to post my stories on her site. Thanks also to that guy who's emailing praise to fanfic authors- I can't remember your name, but I'm really glad you liked my second story! And, last but not least, thanks to Mom, BJ, Dad, Laurie, Cody, Heather, the rest of my nutty friends, the almighty Lunchtable, Bryan42, and, of course, thanks to all my readers!

5. Did you like this story? Do you think I'm an overly dramatic writer who relies too heavily on cliched and archaic plot devices? Did the price of peas in Portugal rise by two cents? Email me at my new address, zer0_gurl@yahoo.com. If anyone actually emails me, I might just start working on a sequel...

6. Oh, yeah. "Future and Past" is copyright April 2001 by Love Gordon. Print out a copy for yourself, share with your friends, but leave my name where it belongs: right here, on this document. Or else, one day, you and two friends will get lost in the woods while searching for someone called the Lawndale Witch... haha

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   [1]: #one
   [2]: http://www.geocities.com/angryrainbows/



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